“Consequences,” Filip muttered. “What the hell does that mean? Why would they care where we stay? Everyone knows the war is not going well for Germany.”
“That’s true,” one of their traveling companions chimed in. “But between the Red Army approaching from the east and American and British air raids, where is a safe place for us if not here? It’s just that there are too many of us for a city this size.”
“Why safe? What makes Dresden different?” Galina turned to ask. They were standing at the foot of the bridge, at the top of wide stone stairs leading down to the main square, the city’s streets laid out before them.
“No strategic targets. Why waste bombs on a cigarette factory or porcelain warehouse?”
“What about the river bridges? And the railroad,” another man said. “They can’t fight if they can’t move.”
“True enough. But see, the railroad station is still standing, and the tracks appear undamaged. If it was so important, the Allies would have hit it long ago.”
By noon they had walked well into the town, down a wide avenue lined with shops, small hotels, and multistory apartment buildings, the cobblestones smooth as bread loaves beneath their feet. Some went to see about gallery seats for the afternoon circus performance; one couple headed for the art museum.
On the street, people moved briskly, with worried looks—the only sign, it seemed, that here, too, life was not entirely normal, touched by the war’s shortages and anxieties. But there was still ersatz coffee and real tea, they saw in passing the glass doors of numerous cafés, and a tray of soft buns in a bakery window.
“Oh,” Galina exclaimed, unable to ignore her hunger or to stifle her desire for the luxury of fresh bread.
“Wait.” Ilya sat down on a bench facing the bakery door, pulled a small spool of wire and his ever-present pliers from his pocket. Within minutes, he had looped DRESDEN 1945 in fluid script out of the pliant coil, then added the name of the shop and a curlicue for garnish underneath. A few more snips and twists to attach a sharpened prong to the back, and the pin was done.
He entered the bakery, pin in hand, removed his cap and approached the woman at the counter. She looked up. They saw a shadow pass over her face when she took in his impoverished condition. She was pretty, past the bloom of youth but not yet middle-aged, with short curly hair and a large-breasted, well-proportioned figure. The group watched in silence, seeing the woman shake her head and begin to turn away, then stop, her head inclined attentively while Ilya worked the pliers on another length of wire.
“Give me a cup,” he said to Ksenia, poking his head out of the shop, his expression triumphant. A few minutes later he emerged, holding a newspaper cone filled with buns. “Breakfast,” he announced. “And this is for you, little mother.” He handed Galina a cup filled with steaming milk.
“All this for a Dresden pin?” Galina held the cup with both hands, taking long, grateful sips.
“And her name. Also her sister’s and two godchildren’s. I will need to find more wire now.”
They ate, chewing slowly to savor the bread’s fresh goodness, knowing it would be gone all too soon, while the hunger, their constant companion, would reappear like a whiny stray dogging their existence with maddening regularity.
“Thank you, God, for this bounty,” Ksenia said, crossing herself when she had done.
“And thank human vanity, too,” Galina added, wiping the inside of the cup with the last of her bun.
“Where shall we go, then? We have only this day.” Filip was glad he had not shared his thoughts with anyone. At least he was spared the humiliation of having his splendid plans fall apart for all to see.
“The circus?” Galina pointed to a colorful poster pasted to the outside wall of a news kiosk. Plumed horses shared the ring with dogs, acrobats, and clowns; a lone elephant held a young woman in the curve of its upturned trunk. “No, that would cost too much,” she said quietly before anyone could object. “But there’s a sign for the zoo.”
“First we must see about the train, for tomorrow.” Ksenia looked at her daughter kindly, with a shadow of a smile.
They pooled their money, hoping there would be enough to buy standing-room passage out of the city. “Maybe I can earn a little more,” Ilya proposed, pocketing the sum. “The day is young.”
They followed the stream of refugees to the train station—people with hungry eyes, bedraggled like themselves, sunken-cheeked and none too clean, clutching their pathetic bundles, their stuffed cardboard suitcases bulging with items too precious to leave behind.
What do you take on a journey into the unknown when the door to your homeland closes behind you, and the prospect of returning is more frightening than the flight? Your wedding ikona, with tarnished silver filigree around the Madonna’s halo? Photographs, heirloom jewelry, no matter how gaudy, a favorite toy, your grandmother’s shawl? Each bag a struggle between nostalgia and practicality, with an instinctive eye to items that can be traded or sold: these embroidered pillowcases, stitched by your mother’s hand but also useful—a souvenir of home, a touch of beauty, a bargaining token against the difficulties of a hazardous meandering journey.
The cavernous waiting hall, full to bursting when they arrived at the railroad station, was a veritable Babel. The air was thick with languages: Russian, Polish, Czech, Serbian, Tatar, and other tongues they could not name floated in a frenzy of communication, while children raised the universal wail of the lost and confused. Galina took hold of Filip’s arm, her eyes wide. “Skol’ko naroda! How can so many people leave in one day?”
Her question was answered when a train pulled in; passengers thronged the platform, climbing into the empty cars before the wheels had stopped turning, shoving and dragging their children and belongings with them. In the momentary space that opened with this departure, it was possible to see the railroad windows and discern the lines of people queued up for tickets. “Where can we go?” Ksenia asked.
“What difference does it make?” Filip loosened his wife’s grip on his arm, took a small tobacco pouch from his pocket, and rolled himself a cigarette. She missed, or chose not to see, the way his lip curled in disgust. What difference does it make?
“West,” Ilya decided. “Away from the eastern border.” And far from the approaching Red Army, with its threat of forced repatriation, they all understood at once.
Ksenia moved toward a cleared space near the open station doors. “I will stay here with our things. You, Ilya, get in line for tickets. And you two go, look around the city; we have enough time before our permit expires. Try to find something to eat if you can. And don’t forget the curfew.” She piled their cases and bundles together and sat down on the sturdiest one.
It was a good plan. Without their things, the young couple could blend more easily into the crowd, move around the city with less likelihood of being stopped at every turn to have their papers examined. They wandered, looking in shop windows like newlyweds, admiring linens, furniture, glassware. A movie house marquee advertised an Italian comedy; the concert hall promised an early evening chamber music recital.
“Schubert? Who’s Schubert?” Galina wondered.
“An Austrian composer, a little like Beethoven, but less”—Filip struggled for the right word—“forceful. You do know Beethoven, yes? His picture was on the wall of the music room at school.”
“Yes. I never liked him. He looked like a beast.” They spoke softly, lest their language attract unwanted attention.
“Well, speaking of beasts, it’s this way to the zoo.”
The zoo was quiet after the busyness of the street, the hubbub of the train station. A group of German schoolchildren crowded around a matronly guide, only half-listening to her talk about the lives and habits of sea lions. The still-energetic seals were starting to show the effects of war rationing, their otherwise shiny pelts dotted with dull, rusty patches and scabby lesions, which seemed to cause them some discomfort. They slithered about on the wet platform, scratching their necks with paddle flippers, filling the air with comical throaty barking.
Here and there, couples, almost invariably one or both of them in military uniform, strolled along the freshly swept paths, paying only cursory attention to the caged animals. Young mothers in groups of two of three pushed baby carriages; an old woman sat on a bench, scattering bread crumbs to a single peacock and his harem of hens. And everywhere there were refugees, dazed, pathetic-looking people moving mechanically from cage to cage, excited children in tow.
We look like that, Galina thought. No wonder they don’t want us here. She straightened her shoulders, ran her hands down the sides of her thin coat, then took Filip’s arm. “Where are the elephants? I can hear them, can’t you?”
“Filip? Is it you?”
They turned, surprised and alarmed. Who would know them here? Was it wise to respond?
The man before them was young, and only a little older than they. He was almost impossibly handsome, his perfect features set off by smooth black hair swept back from his forehead, showing off high Tatar cheekbones and piercing dark eyes. Galina did not recognize him. A face so beautiful was not easily forgotten.
“Musa,” Filip said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Looking at the animals, just like you,” the man smiled, his crooked stained teeth spoiling the overall effect. What a shame, Galina thought. She shot Filip a questioning glance. Did he really know this man? She shivered.
“Let’s walk,” Musa said. “It will be warmer than standing here in the wind. Still collecting?”
“Who has money for stamps?” Filip shook his head. “But I find one from time to time.”
Musa was well dressed, in pressed trousers, good shoes, and a warm jacket, a fur cap in his hand. How had he come to be here? What gave him such a confident, secure air? Should they be talking to him? Was it simple acquaintance, friendship, that motivated his approach? Or was he an agent and, if so, for whom? What did he want?
Galina hung back, not wanting to appear suspicious, yet unsure how to respond to this dazzling young stranger from home. Filip seemed at ease, deep in conversation with Musa. They talked stamps, numbing detail about issues and watermarks, series and values—talk so specialized and mundane that she felt her fears dissipate. She turned her attention to the animals in their small but clean cages.
They walked through the monkey house, warm humid air heavy with a musky blend of fur and fruit, the occupants screeching invective at the passing spectators, pushing small leathery palms through the bars, demanding handouts. In the outdoor exhibits, a pair of black panthers, draped languidly on dead tree limbs near the top of their cage, appeared to be napping, ears flattened, tails gently twitching. There was a lone tiger measuring its confined space with endless pacing; a herd of gazelles, antelopes, and other hoofed creatures whose names Galina didn’t know; a family of giraffes whose small heads and absurd necks made her laugh out loud.
“But where are the elephants?” She interrupted the men, who had moved on to other subjects, something about buildings or bicycles. “I want to see elephants.” She stopped, a brown bear gnawing a large stick in the cage at her back. Musa took her arm and pulled her away just as the bear reared to its full height in a rapid movement that belied its shaggy bulk, baring fearsome tan teeth, waving furry paws the size of a man’s head, claws extended, in their direction. Galina cried out, then covered her mouth, stifling a nervous laugh.
“He must be hungry,” Filip observed, taking her arm and steering her away from the now indifferent bear.
“And so am I. Come have dinner with me,” Musa said. “I insist,” he added, seeing their hesitation. “I have plenty of food. After we see the elephants, of course.” He smiled at Galina. To her own surprise, she smiled back.